“Hock,” he said. “Gil Hock.” He shook Emily’s hand. “Frank said you fence. You compete in tournaments.”
We talked about fencing while Evelyn strapped the baby in a car seat. A minute later Burnett and Evelyn had driven off. Hock rolled his eyes at the receding car, then said good-bye to us. Emily and I started back toward the subway. As soon as we were out of sight, Emily slowed a little and dropped her head.
“You o.k.?” I asked.
“Yeah I’m o.k.,” she said sharply. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
46
We walked on a sandy path through tall, straight pines in the Wharton Forest in southern New Jersey. It was a cool day, cloudy, early spring, and there was no one else out there. Emily stopped often to lean against trees, to look up through them. The entire morning we walked slowly, side by side, and hardly spoke a word.
Around noon we came across an abandoned settlement that must have been 150 years old. Emily walked ahead, entering a roofless, moss-covered structure that seemed to have once been a church. Her small dark figure against the ruin, in that green pine stillness. Along an old mill there was a slow-moving stream, the water clear in the shallows but a deep, translucent copper color in the middle. We rested on pine needles, lying with our jackets beneath our heads, feet angling in toward each other. She sat up and watched a leaf, floating on the water, pass slowly, and when it was gone she leaned back and spoke, looking through the green crosshatch of pine branches.
“There are some people who don’t die,” she said. “I figured I was one of them. Why wouldn’t I be? Now, you know, I’m not so sure.”
“Maybe you are,” I said, but she shook her head.
“I don’t need to get greedy. I’m happy now.” She pressed her boot against my thigh. “A lot of people are never happy. Not like this.” The wind surged and there was a long hush. Several dry needles spiraling down and landing silently. She rolled her head over. “You ever think of taking pictures like this?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Nice things. This feeling—”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“You ever tried?”
“I tried to take a picture of you once.”
I told her how I stood on the roof and watched her fence. The white figure against the dark bricks. How I’d raised and then lowered the camera.
“You didn’t like it?”
“It felt corny. It felt . . . wrong even. Maybe it’s just not what I know.”
“You’re out here having a good time, aren’t you?”
I said I was.
“Then you know it.”
I squeezed her ankle.
“You ready?” she said, and sat up, brushing needles from her hands. She started off into denser woods where the soil was darker. Then into open meadows clogged with thorny shrubs. Near sundown we climbed the ladder of a fire tower. A park ranger let us up through a trapdoor to look out over the flat expanse of pine trees stretching off to the horizon. It was six o’clock and the sun hung a foot above the trees, shining in one window and straight out the other side. The fire tower’s shadow stretched for a quarter-mile. The ranger was a lanky man in his thirties with a beard and a green cap. He sat on a high stool, holding binoculars. There was a burnt area to the north. A dark spot like the shadow of a cloud on the forest.
“When was that?” Emily asked.
“Last August.”
“You saw it?”
“Yes.”
“How long’d it burn?”
“Two days.”
“You could see the fire?”
“Through the binoculars,” he said.
“Were you afraid?” Emily asked.
“It wasn’t a big fire.”
“It could’ve become one.”
“That’s true,” he said.
He raised his binoculars and looked for a moment, remembering the fire.
“Did they stop it?” Emily asked, and he shook his head.
“They let it burn. After two days it rained.”
Emily looked over the vast pine forest. The burnt area seemed a small thing from that distance. Just a shadow on the land.
On the way out, at dusk, in the car I’d rented with some of the extra money, the few high clouds were pink, and the white pines were that soft green color they get at the end of the day. We stopped to look at a snake coiled on the warm concrete. A skinny man with a floppy hat, about sixty years old, walked up the road carrying a stick. He flipped the snake with his stick so it wouldn’t get run over. He waved to us with the stick, then walked on, and we drove away slowly with the first stars just showing.
47
A congestive heart failure patient sat upright in his ER bed, chin forward, gasping for air—he was drowning in his own fluids—while three or four of us stood around idly, wondering if they’d intubate. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see an ER intern. He looked me up and down.
“Are you Frank?”
“Yeah.”
“Just checking,” he said, and walked away. Burnett watched him go.
“What the fuck did he want?”
“Something bad, I’m sure,” I said.
“Why you say that?”
“Someone ever do that to you when it was something good?”
“You got a point,” Burnett said.
Five minutes later Norman came down, walking in his jerky, self-important way. He gave me the eye and walked past. I went on with my paperwork for a moment, then followed him into an empty isolation room. These are the rooms set aside for people with highly infectious diseases. The doors are sealed and the fans create a vacuum. No one could overhear us in there. Norman drew the curtains, then stood close.
“Lemme see your camera.”
“What?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Frank.”
“I’m not fucking with you. How is that fucking with you?”
I held the camera out to him. When he reached for it, I pulled it away and took a shot of him standing there.
“That’s fucking with you,” I said.
He snatched the camera from me. Examined it closely. A Canon one-shot with a retractable lens, automatic flash, manual shutter, and adjustable f-stop ability. Scuffed at the edges. No lens cap.
“You heard about the thefts?”
“No.”
He gave me a look.
“I was thinking about it. About where it happened. I went walking back there. I found this.” He was being very dramatic. He held up a small plastic lens cap. He turned it over in his fingers, then snapped it on my camera. It fit perfectly.
“Good work, detective. I guess that means I did it.”
His eyes went wild. He swung with his right and hit me on the side of the mouth. I stumbled against the sink and he came in toward me. He was about four inches taller and sixty pounds heavier. I jabbed with my left but he twisted, dodged, and had me in his grip. He threw me against the wall. I went at him. He had me in his grip again. He threw me. I went at him, then stopped. We stood there, huffing and puffing in that tiny room.
“Not here,” he said. “I told you before. Not here.”
The camera had fallen. He picked it up and motioned as if he’d throw it against the wall, but he didn’t. He tossed it on the counter. I thought of taking a picture of him, but, seeing his eyes, I decided against it. I grabbed my camera, dropped my head, and walked out quickly. The side of my face was red and there was blood on my teeth. I paced about the ER bay. I spit a few times and wiped a finger on my teeth. I was angry. For a minute I thought of going back in, making a real scene. I paced back and forth. Then I walked down to the loading bays. Hock was standing in his usual spot. My mouth was still bleeding and he smiled when he saw me.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
“Norman,” I said.
“Yeah, I always wanted a brother,” he said.
“He knows about . . .” I nodded across the bay.
Hock registered surprise by gett
ing very quiet and still. His face went blank, and then slowly he brought a hand to his mouth and inhaled on his cigarette, exhaled, then said, “So he really knows?”
“He thinks he does, anyway.”
I told him about the Dilaudid and how he’d asked me about it. And then about the lens cap and what had happened inside. When I was finished, Hock said, “Who cares about that?” Then, “What’s he think he’s gonna do?”
“I don’t know that he’s gonna do anything about it.” I spit. “Other than using it as an excuse to knock me the fuck around.”
“We could talk to him.”
I was quiet.
“We could make sure he’s not doin nothin.” Hock went on smoking. “You could get him back, Frank. I could call the others. Or . . . better not. They might get a little crazy about it. We could get together. You and me and him. Have a little talk.” He tossed the cigarette. “This ain’t the smokin gun. But we don’t wanna mess around, either.” He touched his belt. “You wanna hang out? Wait for him? Have a talk?”
I looked away, then said, “Why not?”
“Frank steps to the plate,” he said. He did not smile when he said it.
“When’d you want to do this?” I asked, and he said, “When did you think?”
I walked back to the ER and handed in my report, then went out sick for the rest of the night. Hock and I waited outside the loading bays for hours, but there were two shootings that night, and a three-car MVA, and Norman never walked past. At five in the morning I went home and slept for a few hours and met Hock back at the loading bays around eleven, but that afternoon I had something else to do. We never caught up with Norman. I don’t know what would have happened if we did.
48
A Dominican guy about my age stood at the window, looking out at a litter-strewn courtyard. It was a small place. Fifteen by fifteen. Sparsely furnished. Just a desk, a phone, an old dresser, and a chair.
“I thought you’d be some fuckup,” the Dominican said.
“How you know I’m not?”
“I don’t,” he said. He turned. “I’m just saying. You don’t look like a fuckup.”
He was dressed in khakis and a white T-shirt. He spoke without an accent. He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. I could see a gun wedged in his pants. Beyond the door, loud voices in the outer waiting area.
“They said you wanted something.”
“A photograph.”
He reached over and gripped the gun.
“Are you high?” he said.
“No.”
“You think you’ll—”
“It’s for myself. It’s what I do. You can ask Rivera.”
“I don’t need to ask Rivera. Who the fuck is Rivera?”
I sat very still. He pulled the gun out and pointed it at me.
“It’s not like it matters. Ain’t like everyone don’t know who I am.” He lowered the gun. “Go on,” he said.
“Right here?”
“Have I been talking?” he said.
Before he could change his mind, I took a shot of him holding the gun. He stuck the gun beneath his belt. I took that shot, too. He stood against the wall with his arms crossed. I got that. He gripped the handle of the gun at his belt and I took a shot as he pulled it back out. He put the gun back in and I took a shot of his waist. Of his tattooed arms. Of his gold teeth. A profile. When I was finished, I took out my notebook.
“What’s your full name?”
He looked at me.
“I just write it beneath the picture. Who it is and what they do. That sort of thing.”
“El Jefe,” he said proudly. And then he added, “Carabez the Chief. And you gonna write dealer, write that I ain’t on welfare, that I support my family, and that I don’t welch on deals.”
I wrote it just like he said. Then I nodded toward the door.
“How about that other guy?”
“How about what?”
“I wanna shoot him, too.”
“Oh, he’s gonna love that,” Carabez said. He didn’t seem happy that I wanted to photograph anyone else. For a moment I thought he’d refuse. Then he opened the door and called into the hallway. “Hey. Shorty. Andale.” A muscle-bound guy wearing a white suit with a white tie and white shoes came in. He had a white hat with a black feather in it. “He wants to take your picture.”
“He wants what?”
“A picture. Thinks you’re pretty.”
“I’m a photographer,” I said quickly. “I’m shooting the people who run Bradhurst.”
The two glanced at each other, smiled.
“Wants some of this,” Shorty said, reaching below his waist.
El Jefe nodded to him.
“Let’m,” he said.
Shorty made as if he’d take off his hat. Then he left it on and leaned back against that old scuffed door and smiled. I took that shot. He held his hands up in two fists with big rings on each finger. I got that. He reached for his gun, goofing, and made as if to shoot it. I took that. And then with his gun in one hand and the other hand on his hat—a cowboy pose. Then he stepped up and put his arm around Carabez and both grimaced, looking tough. Carabez pushed him away. They acted as if they’d shoot. They both laughed loudly. Five minutes passed, with me taking about fifty pictures. Then Carabez held the door for Shorty, who shook my hand and walked out.
“You ready now?” Carabez said.
I said I was. I must have been smiling.
“Now you’re happy,” he said.
“They’re good shots.”
“You carry a gun with that camera?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s better you don’t,” he said.
He took a sack from inside his desk. He placed it in front of me. It was heavier than I expected.
“A red Buick,” he said. “One Forty-Eighth. This side of the street. There’s a guy sittin in it. You hand him that. He hands you something back.”
“Should I count it?”
“Don’t even look at it. Just bring it back.”
I started to walk out and he said, “You ever done this before?”
“No.”
He looked away, smiling.
“Well, if it’s a cop, don’t reach for your belt, don’t reach in your pocket, nothin like that. Just keep your hands up. Run. Whatever. But don’t reach in your pockets.”
I hadn’t considered that.
“Will it be a cop?”
“No,” Carabez said. “It ain’t no cop. I’m just sayin.” He held the door for me. I took the sack and walked out. In the next room I passed Shorty, who was sitting on an old couch with his feet out. He followed me with his gun as I walked past. “Good luck,” he said.
As soon as I shut the door, I heard laughter.
49
In the hallway I stopped and looked in the sack. A plastic bag held a smaller brown paper bag. Inside the second bag were two packages wrapped in white paper. They were heavy, each about the size of a large hoagie sandwich. I gripped one, squeezed it, then walked down the hallway, turned on the steps, and sat. After a moment I got up and walked back to the apartment. I’m not doing this bullshit, I thought. I held my hand up to knock, and then I lowered it. I knew what they’d say. Get the fuck out there and do what you said you’d do. I walked back to the stairway. I set the bag on a stair, left it there, and walked halfway down without it. Then I ran back up, retrieved it, and walked down quickly and out through the courtyard past some kids playing basketball, and turned onto the sidewalk. This was on Bradhurst Avenue and 147th Street. Across the street was a narrow, litter-strewn park. The row of buildings along the park were all abandoned, boarded up, with burn marks over many of the windows. Kids hung out in groups on dusty stoops, on benches, on overturned milk crates. There was a teenaged kid across the street, leaning against a tree, watching me. He nodded north, down the block. A hundred feet away I saw a red Buick with flattened tires and a guy in the passenger seat with the window open, his tattooed forearm on the
windowsill. As I approached I saw it was a white guy with skinny arms, a mustache, and hair slicked back. He studied me as I walked up. Alert, wary eyes. That’s definitely a cop, I thought. I stopped at the corner. I turned back. I could see Carabez and Shorty watching me from a high window, waving for me to go on. I looked back at the guy in the Buick, then started toward him again, reaching in my shirt and taking my camera out. The guy was looking at me with his mouth open when the shutter clicked. Another shot as he bent, his right hand blurred, reaching beneath the dashboard. A third shot as he saw I did not have a gun and he pulled his hand away, his eyes fierce, angry. He glowered at me. I clicked a fourth time, then turned, still holding the sack. I took several steps toward Carabez’s building, hesitated, then hurried across the street and went into the park.
Bradhurst Avenue ran right below the rocky spine of Manhattan. Directly to the west there was a narrow park beneath a looming, fifty-foot cliff. A stairway crisscrossed up the cliff to Edgecombe Avenue, which ran along the high point of upper Manhattan. As I climbed the stairs I heard people shouting behind me. Three men sprinted across the park. One of them was Carabez. I could see him holding his belt as he ran. I went up the steps quickly. When I was about halfway up, a heavy-set kid appeared at the top. He crouched with his hands held out, as if guarding a goal.
“Where you goin, asshole?” he said.
The stairway at that point ran along a grassy slope above the cliff. This kid started toward me. I set the bag on a step, swung a leg over the railing, and walked into the grass. The slope was steep and the grass was long, uncut. I could hear the heavyset kid running down the steps behind me. “I got it! I got it!” he yelled. Carabez ran up the steps and grabbed the sack, looked inside, then threw a leg over the railing. I turned up the hill, but there were two other kids coming down the grassy slope. One must have been about fifteen. The other was older, maybe twenty. They both had guns. I turned toward Carabez. He’d gotten over the railing and approached slowly. His eyes were dull and still.
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